


Alabaster Sun

by writingisacurse



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, tortured arys is tortured, tried to steep the racism out of his pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28084365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingisacurse/pseuds/writingisacurse
Summary: A short ficlet for Arianne/Arys in which Arianne is heart-stopping and Arys is rightfully tortured about it. It's not gonna stop him from boning down tho js.
Relationships: Arianne Martell/Arys Oakheart
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Alabaster Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I now have a power fantasy about turning a devout man's tortured sexuality into a weapon and using it against him for my own bidding but also forming a sort of admiration for him and his loyalty during the process and eventually grieving an undo amount after he gives his life in the stupidest act of courage anyone's ever seen ever :) and its all thanks to Arianne Martell

His world was nothing but the assailing glare of color. 

Ser Arys Oakheart had lived in King’s Landing for as long as it mattered, but still, something about Dorne was simply spilling over with vibrancy. Every color burnt and baked into its surface, the silks gleamed brighter, the sun shone fiercer, the water was greener. Dorne was a newborn burn, before it was apparent how much it was going to hurt. 

Arianne Martell herself was no different. Draped in her gorgeous silks of alabaster, azure, and amber, her dark skin a startling contrast against the pearly whites and soft blues, but being perfectly complemented in the warmer colors that accented her lavish gown, she was a sight more beautiful than he had ever seen before. 

To Arys, it looked like it must have cost a fortune, but from the wanton way Arianne was encouraging him to rip and grab at it, he doubted she felt the same. Coming from such noble birth would always make her different, no matter how closely he held her. To Arianne, wealth and power was a given. To Arys, he could hope for no more than to draw his sword for those who held wealth and power, in a poignant attempt to garnish some of that luxury for himself. 

Not even the Kingsguard quarters were a show of the amount of wealth powerful families had. Under no reign had a member of the Kingsguard had his own chambers, with his own table to break his fast at, his own windows to look upon the sea from. 

At least in Dorne (despite the heat and the spice that all their food seemed to be steeped in) he had more comforts. Here he had his own quarters adjacent to Princess Mrycella, here he could bathe in privacy and eat fiery eggs and soft, juicy figs from the comfort of a table that he could call his own. Here, free from the watchful eyes of the capital, he had Arianne. 

Right now she had him in some desolate corner of Sunspear, down a hall that was barely used since her mother had gone back to Norvos, but was still just as comely as Arianne’s chambers. The walls were draped in all manner of richly embroidered tapestries and silk-spun sigils that bore the sun and spear of house Nymeros Martell, the bed in the main chamber was comically large, so wide it could have fit five or six copies of himself and Arianne and still have space leftover. 

The windows that faced out of the room and into the sea beyond Sunspear were large and spanned almost the entire length and width of the southeastern facing wall, but as of right now the sea was no more than a distant memory- Arianne had closed the drapes a long time ago, blocking out the radiating sun and and bathing them in dusk. 

Arys had an uncomfortable habit of feeling like a prey animal and a predator around Arianne. Sometimes it felt as though he would do anything, go anywhere for her, and all she had to do was press her soft lips against the dip of his throat, or slip the gown off her shoulder only slightly. He would fall on his sword if she asked, but beneath his hands, absurdly larger than her own, she was like hot gold, malleable to the touch. She was ever so giving with what he let her take, and often more than not it had the unpleasant effect of making him wrought with guilt afterwards. 

Somewhere, deep in the back of skull, buried among bone and flesh, he knew it was going to end badly. In no reality did Arianne run away with him, elope to Essos, or promote him to Prince of Dorne. He would die as he lived, as Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard. Despite Dorne feeling like a getaway that he was lathering himself in, it was his duty. It was all that embodied his sworn oath as a member of the Kingsguard Brotherhood, and right now, with Arianne’s soft flesh underhand and her silky dark curls tickling the skin of his stomach, he was breaking one of the most important vows. 

I will not wed or father children, so long as I remain under the service of the King. 

Despite being aware of it, there was nothing Arys could have done in the moment to remove himself from the touch of his Princess. Arianne had her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him lower to meet her as she kissed him with her own sort of elegance, her tongue swirling around his as she did. Her body was flush against his, her hair against his bare chest, one of her legs pressing between his. 

A better man would hate her, he thought to himself. A stronger man would have been able to put her aside. When she was in his arms, nothing existed. Not his vows, not the Kingsguard, not even the little Princess Mrycella. 

When Arianne’s lips left his own, he had to suppress a whimper of disappointment. Never had a woman had him this way, so fervent. Her small hands slid down the panes of his stomach, through the soft brown hair that raced down his abdomen, and then she was kneeling in front of him, unlacing his breeches. 

“So handsome,” she purred softly, and for a moment he felt like a puppy being petted and stroked for the simple feat of managing to chew its first bone. To his utter humiliation, he leaned into the touch anyways, yearning for more. 

Arys bit his tongue as he felt her kiss her way around his hips and stomach, down his thighs, anywhere but where he needed her. She almost sounded like she was giggling as she did so, her smile apparent against his skin. Her touch left scorch marks along his skin that he half expected to find blackened and blistered by the morning. Every touch of hers was torture, and yet if she stopped he would surely never sleep again. Each night would be cursed to him, he would toss and turn and gaze at the moon as he thought of her lips again, of her supple figure and her soft skin, of the way it felt to wind her hair in his hands and tug. 

Any resolve he might have had walking down the hallway had been slain by a woman’s gentle kiss. He let Arianne pleasure him, drowning in the disgrace of it all, spending every second moment believing he was going to make her stop in the next. 

His hands found her hair, and wrapped loosely around the inky strands, still warm to the touch from the sun that had been beating down atop her head earlier, when she had found him in the courtyard. He let out a guttural sound at the back of his throat, his abdomen winding like there was a snake curling around his body and crushing his frame, and for a second drenched in insanity, he was certain he was going to ask Arianne to marry him when he recovered from this ordeal. 

Arys sighed when she stood again, half in content and half in dread. Arianne was never quick to finish with him. 

“Surely you’re not done?” she asked him sweetly, pulling him over to the bed and pushing him down on top of it. When he learned she meant to sit astride him, his heart sped up. 

“Never, Princess.” 

And then her soft legs were slipping around his, and she pressed up against him and kissed his chest, and then his neck, in the spot where it met his chest, up to his jaw, and finally to his lips, where she resumed their kiss. It was less hasty this time, slower and with more intent. Arianne’s hand slid down his stomach again, and he groaned into her lips. 

The pleasure from moments ago had finished washing over him, and now that he was back in a rightful state of mind (for the next few seconds, anyways,) he had the good sense to feel guilty. Arianne was a Princess, the Princess of Dorne, a woman who would marry some lord or prince one day, not him, never him. And yet he would despoil her all the same, and allow her to demean herself for his pleasure. 

He was racked with the grief of it all, even as her hand found him again, as ready as he had ever been, and she smiled against his mouth, “My knight…” Arianne sighed against him, leaning forwards so that her chest touched his, her silks riding up around her waist, half falling off her frame. 

“Yours,” Arys gasped in agreement as his hands found her round hips, and dug in harder than he had any right. It pained him to think that one day Arianne would not be his anymore. She would be another’s, to hold and love and touch, and for Arys, she would be nothing but the passing moon, beautiful in it’s unattainability. When she was over the dawn would return, as bright and harsh as ever, to remind Arys who he was and where he came from, and that he did not deserve a Princess such as Arianne Martell.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah I listened to Genghis Khan by Mike Snow on repeat for this entire ficlet. What about it.


End file.
